While the men were still in the dining-room, and Varick had gone out for a moment to look for some very special, new kind of cigarette which had come down from London a day or two before, Tapster had spoken very disagreeably of the richness of the French chef’s cooking.  He had seemed to think it an outrage that something of a special, very plain, nature had not been provided for him every day, and he had hinted that perhaps the doctor could suggest some antidote to all this richness!  There was another reason, so Panton’s sleepy mind told him, why he didn’t like his sulky, plain fellow-guest.  It became suddenly, unexpectedly, clear to him that Tapster was much taken with Miss Bubbles.  The man had hardly taken his eyes off her during the whole of dinner, and it had been a disagreeable, appraising look—­as if he couldn’t quite make up his mind what she was worth!  He told himself, while remembering that look, that Tapster was the kind of man who is always hesitating, always absorbed in some woman, and yet always afraid to try his luck—­in the hope that if he waits, he may do better next time!  Miss Bubbles was a hundred times too good for such a fellow, however rich the fellow might be....

Gradually Panton felt himself slipping off into that pleasant condition which immediately precedes a dreamless, healthful sleep.

And then, all at once, his senses became keenly alert, for a curious sound became audible in the darkening room.  It was without doubt a sound created by some industrious mouse, or perhaps—­though that idea was a less pleasant one—­by a greedy rat.  Swish, swish—­swish—­just like the rustling of a lady’s silk dress!

Panton stretched out his right arm, and knocked the wall behind him sharply twice or thrice, and the sound stopped suddenly.  But after a few minutes, just as he was dropping off, it began again.  But it no longer startled him, as it had done the first time, and soon he was fast asleep.

It might have been a moment, it might have been an hour, later, when there came a sudden, urgent knocking at his door.  He sat up in bed.

“Come in,” he called out, now wide awake.

The door opened slowly—­and there came through it a curious-looking figure.  It was James Tapster, arrayed in a wonderful dressing-gown made of Persian shawls, and edged with fur.  He held a candlestick in his hand, and the candle threw up a flickering light on his pallid, alarmed-looking face.

“Dr. Panton,” he whispered, “I wish you’d come out here a moment.”

And the doctor, cursing his bad luck, and feeling what he very seldom felt, thoroughly angry, said ungraciously:  “What is the matter?  Can’t you tell me without my getting out of bed?”

Last night’s excellent dinner, which couldn’t have hurt any healthy man, had evidently upset the unhealthy millionaire.

“Can’t you hear?” whispered Tapster.  His teeth were, chattering; he certainly looked very ill.